


When I Lose Myself (I Find You)

by stardust_made



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda to 8.13, Love, M/M, Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:36:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Music can be heard in the background, a different song but the same thing—jazz, the grown-up music befitting the whiskey and their surroundings, befitting their evolving relationship." PWP with some characterisation thrown in for good measure. Takes off from the final scene in 8.13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Lose Myself (I Find You)

 

In general Sam loses track of time and his surroundings only in two cases. The first is when he’s really, really involved in some kind of reading, most often research. He sometimes gets so absorbed in it, it feels like the clock is playing tricks on him; the sun as well, because it seems to go from one state—being there—to another—not being there—without anything in-between.

The second case is when he’s happy.

That one is harder to explain, maybe because there isn’t enough experience to draw a proper frame of reference from. Sam can only recall several instances of it happening. Like the time he put on a song, and Jess snuggled up under his arm, and it was Saturday the following day so they had nothing to do.  Sam could have sworn that they had spent an eternity like that, in a softly lit, cosy house somewhere. While in reality he’d blinked a few times and had found that the song was only just ending, and he and Jess were still on the sofa bed in Jess’s old room.

Or once, he and Dean were driving through the countryside at night, the smell of summer meadows filling up the air between them as if they were suddenly inside the Impala’s lungs. And Sam had been ready to argue they’d only just checked out of the motel an hour ago when the faint candy pink of dawn gently called him a liar and corrected him that it was over five hours ago.

All that might explain why now, he lifts his head from the papers spread out in front of him and suddenly has absolutely zero idea whether it’s been minutes that have passed or a whole night; it takes him a long moment to establish his bearings as well. He’s not exactly doing research, but cataloguing for the best library in the world is pretty close. However, that alone may not have been enough to zap his brain out of the space and time continuum. The other thing is, though.

Sam’s eyes automatically go to Dean, because he doesn’t have to dig deep to make the connection. His brother may not be the only thing necessary to make Sam happy, but without him all the other ingredients in the world won’t do it for Sam.

Dean’s still where he was when he started sipping his whiskey. His feet are still up, his shoulders are still relaxed, his glass is still full. (Sam has a swift recollection of both of them having a top up.) Music can be heard in the background, a different song but the same thing—jazz, the grown-up music befitting the whiskey and their surroundings, befitting their evolving relationship. Because a major, major part of Sam’s happiness stems from one word in Dean’s voice: “Good,” and one look in Dean’s eyes, the look of mature acceptance of Sam being who he is, of Dean understanding that, _letting_ him be himself, encouraging him.

Warmth begins to trickle in Sam’s stomach as he keeps watching his brother: the proportionate line of his neck, the light bulge of muscle on his upper arm. Only half of Dean’s face is visible from Sam’s perspective, but it tells him all he needs to know—that his brother is as ridiculously, effortlessly attractive as he’s always been; that he _is_ a grown-up underneath all his insecure or playful goofiness. But most of all, one look only, and Sam would bet his life on it because he can read Dean better than he can read anyone—it tells him that Dean is happy too.

The warmth in Sam’s stomach turns slightly euphoric and flares up, like whiskey splashed in the flames of a fireplace. He gently pushes back his chair and walks around the table, mindful to keep his steps light. The moment he stands in front of Dean he knows he’s right—Dean’s face when he looks up at Sam glows with contentment, his whole demeanour languid in a way that spells out ‘happy’ better than a hundred-page novel. His eyes of course are what seal the deal. They lift to Sam and instantly broadcast one thing only, that unique, indestructible, loving message. It’s Dean, so it’s not elaborate or too complicated. His eyes just say, ‘Sammy’.

Sam takes a step closer and looks intently at Dean, giving him time to read him back. Ten years they’ve had this thing between them on and off, and it’s never, ever initiated by Dean. When Sam was young and still defined himself through pushing against his brother, he pushed about that, too. But Dean never wavered, never explained, really. Sam still doesn’t know whether it’s Dean’s way of surviving through his guilt of being with Sam like that, or whether it’s a bargain he’s made with himself that as long as Sam’s the one asking the boundary shifts completely and to hell with it. It’s long since stopped being important for Sam to drill down to the core of it. Sam has let Dean be because he owes him that, but also because if that’s the only way for them to have each other and not break, then Sam will take it.

He hasn’t asked for it since Dean came back. Once or twice Sam has caught something in Dean’s eyes, too subtle to be a plea, too gut-wrenching to be a trick of the light—a question, perhaps. Sam didn’t respond to it, because—Because of their freaking lives, that’s why. Because of their baggage, alone and together; because of the burdens of the world once again trying to nestle on their shoulders. But mostly, because Sam didn’t want it. Just like Dean never initiates it, Sam never asks for it unless he really wants it.

He wants it now. He wants Dean so much it’s as if desire and need have accumulated in his bones making them melt in his body.

Dean’s eyes change in one single instant, awareness turning them darker and cautiously hopeful. The thought of Dean wanting Sam for days and weeks and months, waiting for him and denying himself—No, the thought of _Sam_ denying him makes Sam’s heart beat against his ribcage, maudlin and mighty, like it does only for his brother. Dean’s gaze is flickering over Sam’s face, reading, emotion welling up in his eyes to match that in Sam’s.

Sam rests his hand on Dean’s outstretched legs and shoves lightly, indicating he wants them down. Dean shifts in his seat and obeys; the thud of his feet as they reach the floor echoing dully in the space. Dean’s face is even more uplifted to Sam’s now, giving him an air of uncertain expectance. He licks his lips quickly.

Sam doesn’t waste any more time and drops down on his knees, hips naturally insinuating themselves between Dean’s thighs. On most occasions he would start this by kissing Dean, reassuring them both that they’re following some natural order of things. But the world has tilted somehow, or rather righted itself, and Sam the grown-up doesn’t need to prove anyone anything. Besides, everything there is to know Dean knows, of course he knows…

Sam’s eyes drop to Dean’s fly and he swallows. He reaches with a steady hand and undoes Dean’s belt, then the buttons, opening Dean’s jeans to reveal his dark blue boxer shorts. Sam stares at their folds, mouth going dry; he is completely stumped by how he’s managed to go on for so long without touching Dean. Without his familiar scent, already enveloping Sam in a sweet cocoon of arousal. He lifts his eyes to Dean as his fingers tug at both the jeans and the shorts, and he sees how tense and wrecked Dean already looks. Even his jaw is tight—he’s unconsciously clenching it. Sam swiftly lifts the rim of Dean’s t-shirt and kisses his belly once, twice, then keeps kissing it, chasing away any tension.

The code Sam speaks into Dean’s skin seems to work, because his brother relaxes slowly. He lifts his hips; Sam catches his eyes and without breaking eye contact pulls down Dean’s underwear and jeans. He leaves them half-way down Dean’s thighs, not wanting to remove himself even for a second in order to take them off and slot between Dean’s legs properly. Sam’s already half hard himself and he knows this is just for starters—there’ll be time for ‘slow and proper’ later, in this amazing place with soft linen and hot water and blessed solitude.

His eyes drop down and his nostrils flare to take in more of Dean’s naked scent. Soap and musk and some detergent, as well as that fresh, slightly smoked scent that’s uniquely Dean’s. The scents are not the only thing Sam realizes he’s been missing—the sight of Dean’s dick, already taking a shy interest in the proceedings, makes Sam gulp again. His brother is beautiful in every single part of his body, no exception here. Sam has never done anything like this with another guy, but he is pretty sure it’s Dean and Dean alone who can make blowing someone so intense and erotic and delicious.

Sam lowers his head and takes hold of Dean, then gently sucks around the crown like he remembers his brother loves it. He can’t help the sound he makes when he takes air in through his nose, stuffing his lungs with the smell. Dean’s reaction can’t be missed, hips and thighs tensing under Sam, a similar sharp intake of air above Sam’s head. Sam closes his eyes and works the head for a while, licks around it and mouths at it, mouth flooding with sensations and tastes that have been part of some hidden, special palate of Sam’s ever since he was twenty-one. _Good_ sensations and tastes, so good, so Dean. Dean, who is getting full and hard in Sam’s hand, breathing louder and louder, tiny unselfconscious sounds of pleasure drifting out of him and making Sam move his tongue with extra creativity.

Soon Dean is hard like a rock. Sam lets go of him just to see the sight of his flushed, perfect dick stand straight because of Sam, for Sam. He lifts his eyes to Dean’s—

“Sammy,” Dean says in that deep, raw voice he has only for those two syllables, and Sam’s mouth is back on Dean’s dick again with urgent determination. He blows Dean like he would if he knew this was the last time he’d ever do it, lips working the slick skin up and down, tongue flicking over the slit then flattening out right under the head, cheeks hollowing with suction. Dean’s hands have shifted to Sam’s hair in no time like they always do, as if the most intimate contact is still not enough for him and he needs to hold on to Sam with everything he’s got. Sam thinks of how Dean holds on to him when Sam rocks inside of him, then thinks of the bed upstairs, the bed and the night ahead of them, and can’t help himself but hum loud and long. Dean moans in response, fingers twitching in Sam’s hair. His hips have started making tiny circular motions, and Sam goes with those, because he knows those, too. He knows what Dean likes so well, and it’s so fucking perfect—that he can give Dean the best, that he also equates happiness for Dean.

Sam’s hand is wrapped up around Dean’s dick from the root up, covering most of his length. Sam holds him firmly but squeezes just lightly, the friction synchronized with Sam’s mouth. He’s set up a steady rhythm that he knows will have Dean coming in a couple of minutes, so he listens to Dean’s broken pants of ‘Sam, Sammy’ and keeps sucking, the final distance as much a pleasure for him as it is for Dean. He gazes up at Dean’s face to find a rare sight—Dean’s thrown his head back, his eyes shut. His lips have parted, though, as they always do; damp and mocking Sam’s lips with real perfection. Sam hums again, the sense memory of Dean’s lips around him suddenly making his forgotten dick throb. Another point of discovery of how much they have evolved together. This is no longer the hungry, messy push and pull of youth, but an equally hungry abandon in the pleasure of each other. Sam suddenly needs to feel Dean’s eyes on him, to make him watch how much Sam has lost himself in him. Without changing the rhythm or letting Dean out of his mouth he rubs a wet finger up and down his perineum. His reward is instantaneous—Dean’s eyes snap open as he gasps and gazes at Sam, eyes unfocused and desperate like Sam’s rarely seen them.

“Sam,” Dean says. “Sammy, out,” he says, always, always looking after Sam first. Sam lets him slip out of his mouth just as Dean starts coming, hips straining up, hands tightening in Sam’s hair. Sam strokes him through it long and hard, watching his features transform from terse pleasure to slackened haze, then presses his lips against the tip. Dean sighs and swears softly under his breath, head lolling forward, eyes closed again.

They remain still for some time—Sam loses track again—then Dean’s eyelids flutter open. Below them, his gaze is serious and deep, travelling over Sam’s features as if trying to pry them open, only to deposit all of himself inside. His right hand untangles itself from Sam’s strands and cups Sam’s face, thumb brushing the skin under Sam’s left eye.

Sam leans into the touch and thinks of soft linen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to the lovely [analineblue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/analineblue) for her speedy beta and her encouraging feedback.


End file.
